At first glance, the room wasn’t unkind.

The walls were a gentle off-white, once bright but now slightly yellowed, like aged paper. An armchair sat beneath a lamp that never flickered, casting a soft glow. It was always just warm enough. Just dim enough. Comfortable in the way a coma might be.

The window was tall, set into the far wall. Framed by thin, grey curtains that never moved,no wind, no weather. The glass looked out onto nothing. A fog so thick and still it almost seemed painted on. You could press your forehead to it, squint, even breathe hard and watch the condensation collect..but there was never a view. Just… blur.

There was a bookshelf, neat and small, beside the chair. Four rows. Worn spines. The kind of books with gold titles and soft paper. Stories that bled the same message: hold on. Persevere. Suffering is the test before the reward. She read them all. Sometimes twice. Some pages still had the tear stains.

A drawer sat beneath the bookshelf. It didn’t have a lock. It never had to.

In the mornings-if they could be called that-the ceiling light would hum faintly, as if waking before her. The air always smelled faintly of lavender and dust. Not unpleasant. Just… old. Like time had been sitting here a while.

The Voice didn’t come from a corner. It didn’t echo. It didn’t belong to a mouth. It simply existed in the air-somewhere between the lamp’s glow and the stillness of the carpet beneath her feet.

"You’re doing so well," it would say.

It always knew when she was about to break. That’s when it was softest. Sweetest. A friend who never left. Someone who never judged.

Sometimes she’d cry in the chair until her chest ached. The Voice would wait, then whisper:

"Tomorrow might be different."

And she’d breathe again.

There was food. Always the same.. soft bread, clear soup, a cup of warm tea. No clock, but the tray appeared when she needed it. Not before. Not after. Just enough to keep her alive.

The mirror above the bookshelf told her the truth she never asked for. Her cheeks had hollowed. Her eyes had dulled. Her spine curled forward a little more every day, as if preparing to fold into herself.

She tried to remember how long she’d been there. A week? A year? It didn’t matter. Time here wasn’t measured in minutes. It was measured in silences. In repetitions.

"You’ve come this far," the Voice said once, when she stared too long at the wall. "Why leave now?"

Why, indeed?

She didn’t want to admit it, but the idea of leaving terrified her more than staying. Out there was unknown. Unpromised. In here, at least, there was company. A script. A pattern. In here, she was almost healing.

Until one day, she didn’t sit back down.

Something was different

Not outside. Not with the room. Inside her. Like the recognition of an infection that had been festering so quietly, she mistook it for part of her.

She stepped toward the window. Pressed her hand to the glass. It was cold. Real. But still, nothing beyond it.

She looked around the room.

The chair was comfortable,but it had grooves now, worn exactly to her shape. The bookshelf was full-but every story said the same thing. The mirror didn’t lie anymore. It didn’t even flinch.

And the drawer.

It was already open.

Inside- a knife. Small. Clean. Used, maybe. But not for violence. Not yet.

The Voice appeared behind her ear:

"It’s okay to be scared."

"You’ve survived so much already."

"Leaving now would mean it was all for nothing."

She didn’t cry.

She just knew-

This room had never needed locks. It had hope. It had stories. It had comfort. Enough to keep her waiting. Enough to make her believe that endurance was progress. That patience was purpose. That suffering, properly romanticized, was a path.

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t even a trap.

But even now, as her hand hovered above the drawer, as the weight of lost years pressed down on her shoulders, she couldn’t move.

She knew. But she was too far in. Too worn down. Too afraid that maybe, just maybe, the Voice was right.

Maybe tomorrow really was the day.

So she sat back down.

The lamp hummed. The window blurred. The books waited.

And it , gentle as ever, whispered-

"Just one more day"...

…then she hoped. She got her food.

Only today it was different.

She searched the room for anything to change the script. Her thoughts spiraled so hard she nearly ended herself right there. That “almost” came with a question. A what if.

She grabbed the chair, hurled it at the window. Glass shattered into the fog.

She climbed through.Another room.

Exactly the same. Waiting for her

She smashed that window too. Crawled out.

Another room.

And another.

Until she finally fucking understood

there were only rooms.

The same fate now whispered remorse

Dear reader:

open the door, i beg of you